


Can We Take Another Chance?

by TORUKAisJUSTICE



Series: The Art of Stalking [8]
Category: ONE OK ROCK
Genre: Cheating, Established Relationship, I still suck at tagging so please bear with me, M/M, Toruka - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-06-23 18:55:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15612753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TORUKAisJUSTICE/pseuds/TORUKAisJUSTICE
Summary: She gave him peace, contentment, and happiness.And yet...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a multi-chapter fic. I tried not mentioning the name of the girl, but all of you will easily know who I was referring to.
> 
>  
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. OOR is not mine and the actions and words of the character in this fic is just a product of my imagination. All mistakes, typos, and shittiness of the story is mine.

It was noisy—the club filled with cheerful laughter’s and drunk greetings to the man getting married. The stench of alcohol and perfumes and food and smoke is thick in the air, and if Toru _could_ choose, he would be more than gladly to fuck off and drives –light-speed—towards the nearest road leading to his house.

_Too bad, everyone wants my presence here._

“What are you sulking at, Toru-nii?!” Ryota, drunk and flustered to his cheeks, grabbed his arm, “You’re _not_ the one getting married next week! Loosen up!” he said, making Toru smile. A bit too widely. Which could mean either he’s ready to flip everyone off or just murder his childhood friend in cold-blood.

He _never_ wanted to be here.

It’s crowded, filled with people he knows shit about, too loud and noisy, but this is Ryota’s stag party and fuck if the younger man would allow him to ditch the event. He actually planned to do so, but damn the bassist—he plays in a band, along with his other friend Tomoya—for practically stalking him in the last few days—showing up in his home, sending mails and emails and _let’s not forget_ the shit-ton of text messages and calls that bombed his phone for four straight days.

 _Loosen up, he says_ , Toru gripped his glass of alcohol, _if I’m not loosen up, I would’ve smashed this glass onto your face for dragging me into here!_

But he couldn’t say that aloud without hurting his best friend. Ryota’s getting married soon—like, next week—to a pretty foreign girl. Toru wouldn’t be able to make it to the event, job shits and all so he could at least show his perpetually bored face in the stag party, just to appease Ryota.

Ryota who’s now bawling in the arms of an equally drunk Tomoya about how lucky and happy he is for meeting Michelle.

“What a sap…” Toru muttered, sipped a bit of his drink and swept his eyes across the hall. The party is still roaring, even if the host is already too smashed up. He couldn’t remember the last time he had attended events as wild and as rowdy as this, perhaps one? Two? Three years at most?

Since settling down, all events were reduced to galas and formal parties—wearing stuffy long sleeves and clothes, hair slicked back and a charming smile plastered on his thin lips—his arm entangled with a smaller one, his wife’s tender ones.

She is…Toru slightly paused at that…she never liked loud parties, prefers small dinner and romantic getaways by the beach. She’s a charming girl, all smiles and sunshine’s and with the softest and angelic voice he had ever heard in his life. She’s also funny, and with a boundless energy that could make him chuckle even if the world is shitty and was so keen on making him exhausted as fuck.

_She was everything he isn’t._

And that’s probably why he had married her, two—almost three years ago.

Toru faintly smiled, fishing his phone out of his coat and stared at his lock screen display. It was a picture of his wife, caught without her knowledge as she walked along the beach in peace. White dress fluttering in the air, a hand holding her huge hat in place as the setting sun casts golden, fleeting rays on her porcelain-like skin.

She is the light to Toru’s dark world.

The music in the dead-silence of his life. His savior from the monotony of it all.

She gave him _peace, contentment, and happiness._

 _And she will also give you one hell of a scolding coz you forgot to fucking call her that you’ll be out late tonight,_ his mind sourly supplied. Oh shit, he totally did forgot! _Damn._ She might be a sweet angel but she’s also a force to reckon with with her sharp tongue whenever she’s fired up and on the roll. She would pout, her cheeks puffing out, making her a cute chipmunk before stalking out of the room. And that would be Toru’s cue to follow after her like a love sick puppy with arms full of flowers and foods— _non-fat, low calorie ones_ —and lots of apologies.

Girls love those kinds of things. But no matter how he loves seeing his wife being adorable as that, he still doesn’t want to have a fight over some party when he gets home later—tomorrow, coz the party looks nowhere near ending any moment from now. The last thing he wants is to enter the house, his wife’s sleep-depraved and judging eyes boring holes into his head. And the argument that would surely follow.

“I’ll just call my wife,” he doubts that Ryota even heard him, but Tomoya just grinned up at him, and he took that as a sign that the drummer is still sane and sober enough to process his words, “I’ll be back.”

“Don’t take too long, Toru!” Tomoya said when he stood up and grab his lighter and box of cigarettes, “The main event would start any moment from now!”

He lazily waved a hand without even looking back— _main event? What’s this? A boxing event?_ —as he ducked through the slamming bodies in the hall and pushed his way towards the exit. He breathes a sigh that he never knew he’s holding upon moving out of the crowded hall and into the dimly lit hallway towards the exit. It’s so silent in there, the loud thumping of music was just an echo behind him as he walked towards the double doors.

 _Maybe I should just ditch the party_ , he thought. But Ryota won’t like that, and he might even hold this against him to force Toru into attending his wedding next week.

_Okay, maybe not. Just a bit of fresh air and a smoke or two. And yes, call my wife, too._

He sighed, pushing the door open.

The pre-winter breeze hits him in the face like a freezing wrecking ball, it was welcomed tho. It was warm, hot inside the club and the breeze of fresh—albeit chilling—air is still appreciated better. He glanced at his phone, it’s almost one o’ clock in the morning and he doubts that she’s still awake at this hour.

 _I’ll just leave a message then,_ he decided as he trudged towards the side of the building, where the shadows of the trees offer a nice, dark shade for him to hide. He never really like public appearances, well, except when it involves his job or when he’s needed to be seen with his lovely wife.

_Sometimes, I really wondered why I married—_

“…hello! This is Hiron—,”

“I’ll be late tonight,” he interrupted the cheery greeting of his wife’s voice mail, “Or maybe I’ll get home by morning. Ryota’s party is insane and I can’t just leave without him whining and crying on my feet. Just…just message me when you’re about to leave for work, okay?”

There was a pause. Toru tried remembering how he usually ended voice messages—heck, they didn’t even usually use voice messages because they were usually together, attentive to each other’s needs, and calls. _When was the last time_ he even said “I love you” to his wife?

Huh…

_That’s weird._

“Take care, ne?” he said instead, before ending the call. He stared at it for a bit longer, wondering what’s wrong this time. He’s exhausted, that’s for sure, but to actually think of things like that? His brows furrowed, as the unfamiliar feeling bloomed within his chest. _Three years_ —they’ve been married for almost three years and…and…

 _“You’re working a bit more these past few months_ ,” she said once, _“If I didn’t know how loyal you are, I might think that you’re dating someone behind my back, you know?”_

It was said so casually, like a joke but the message is still there. there’s something wrong with their marriage, but he kept on pushing and pretending that everything’s fine. That staying up late cooped up in the studio is fine, that sleeping until noon so that he could avoid breakfast—composed of fruits and oats and vegetable juices—with her, that the cold shoulder and angry outbursts from his once calm and cheeky wife is fine.

_How fine is fine?_

“You look like shit.”

Toru’s hand holding the cigarette froze into the air when someone spoke beside him. His eyes widened, at the sight of a smaller man with lighter hair and dark clothes.

“Wha—,” he stuttered out as he took hurried steps away from the man who suddenly popped out of nowhere, “W-what the fuck? Do you want to scare me to death or something?!”

The man tilted his head, his eyes blazing like fire in the darkness of that corner. He looks like a predator, really and Toru probably looks like a shaking baby prey, ready and ripe to be devoured completely.

“Well, hello,” the man said, hello coming out as _“ha-row”_ in strange English accent, “I think I’m kinda lost then I saw you brooding in the dark and you look like shit—wait, I already said that, right? Gomen, gomen—and thinking so deeply that you didn’t even noticed me creeping out on you—,”

“Well, you’re _actually_ creeping me out—,”

“—So I just had to gather your attention to ask for directions!” he explained, making vague motions with his hands. Toru stared at the man, the cigarette forgotten on his fingers.

Who the hell is this man— _boy—kid, whatever_ who’s casually talking to him? His mother told him to be wary of strangers, especially those who suddenly approach you in the dark…

He subtly stepped back, earning a quizzical look from the stranger, the lights from the club behind him illumination his form. he saw the man’s eyes widened at that, and fuck if it’s the weirdest shit in the world. What if he’s a _stalker?_ Wait, does rock bands even have those kinds of fans??

“You’re scared of me?” he asked, as if it’s not the most obvious thing in the world, “No, no, don’t be! I’m just really lost and was gonna ask for direction,” the man took a tentative step forward, his figure getting bared for the whole world to see in a painstakingly slowly manner, “but now… _hmmm_ …”

Toru’s breath hitched for a moment when the man fully stepped out of the shadows. The bright neon lights casting a cacophony of brilliant shades on the blond, curly tresses falling on his face. His eyes were blazing with mischief—something that made Toru swallowed, hard—nose proud and tall—and full, red lips split with the _biggest grin he had ever seen in his life._

He doesn’t want that grin.

Hell, he doesn’t even want to be staring at this stranger who’s got the looks of an angel, but the smug, smile of a devil.

His mind is screaming for him to get away, get back inside or run the fuck out for his life, but— _but_ there’s something compelling in those wide, almond-shaped orbs— _shinning and glimmering_ and Toru can feel his soul getting lost in their endless depths. He stood there, frozen, blood sizzling within his veins, feeling the unfamiliar twinge the he hadn’t felt in the last few years.

Thrill.

Excitement.

_Desire._

Wait— _what?_

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” he blinked out of his dangerous stupor, only noticing that the man is now just merely inches away from him. He’s short, the top of his head barely reaching his nose, but it doesn’t make him less intimidating—he’s got the control, the confidence and grace that could probably command a crowd if he ever set his feet on a stage—, “ _Ne, stranger-san, ne oshiete yo_ ,” he purred in perfect Japanese, “When was the last time you got a decent fuck?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

What.

_What?_

Toru backed—almost jumped—away from the stranger who’s leering up at him with an annoying smirk on his lips. What the hell was that? _Is he—did he just—_

“Are you a hooker?” he asked, brows knitted in confusion and fury at himself because he couldn’t believe that he almost fell prey to the man’s deceivingly good looks. Of course, only _those kind of people_ would approach you in the dark. Only those kind of people would suddenly strike a conversation with a man standing alone in the shadows. Toru felt the shame and guilt eating at his system—had he really felt excitement and thrill for this…this...?

The man looked at him—now he hates those innocent-looking eyes more than ever—for a moment, long enough to make Toru feel like he’s shooting laser beams down to his very bones, before he suddenly barked in laughter. A warm, loud and so very alive kind of laughter that belongs to a boy—careless, young and free—rather than the man standing a few feet away from him.

“Ahahahahahaha—you should’ve seen your face,” he said as he doubled-over, blond strands of hair falling like curtains on his flushed cheeks, “Ahahahaha— _hahaha_!!”

Toru should’ve ran for the moment. The man is busy laughing his heart out and trying to keep himself from just keeling all over the ground so he should’ve take that chance to flee and save himself from more unwanted thoughts but then again, something was so…attractive with the way the man laughs—how his eyes squint, the lines crinkling around it, how his cheeks flushed a lovely shade of red, how his mouth was thrown wide open, all white teeth shining as he giggles merrily—how his entire being brightened up with just a few laugh.

It was…

Mesmerizing.

_Tantalizing._

And Toru could feel the foreboding of a massive headache as his mind desperately tried to remember the last time he saw and hear someone laughing as pretty as that.

_“You always make me laugh, mou!”_

He blinked as the image of his lovely wife— _then girlfriend_ —flashed into his mind. They were still dating for two months and she was laughing at practically everything, eyes wide, lashes fanning on her cheeks when she laughs a soft, hearty chuckle. She looks so good, so sweet, her laughter ringing in his ears like a delicate song, whereas this man’s—

_It was totally different._

Brash, rough, yet it carries the greatest amusement in the world. Toru inwardly frowned at that. Why was he even thinking—comparing—of those things? Just because of a man’s manic giggling spree? Is that even alright??

“Well,” the man sighed, grinned, as he put his hands on either side of his jean-cladded hips, “If I am, would you pay for it?”

Pay?

Pay for what?

Pay for _sex_?

“Of course not,” he said, fast and without even thinking about his response. Well, he’s a married man and being in the same vicinity with a sex worker is not really in his bucket list. But then, the man smugly turned his chin up, a challenging smirk plastered on his lips as his eyes zoned back on his face. the air between them suddenly went dry, crackling with sparks and electricity that makes shiver run down his spine. The silence is almost deafening, the stares boring holes to his core as he tried to throw defying looks at the mana cross him.

“Of course not,” the man softly said—Toru didn’t know if he’s mocking him or what—before his eyes darted on his left hand, on the golden ring on his finger, “You’re a married man, I see,” he nodded, but the mischief in his eyes never left the dark orbs, but shine brighter instead. It screams danger, of complications, of dread and guilt, it screams of everything that Toru had never experienced before—

“But when was the last time you had sex?”

…

…

Toru felt all of his blood rush up to his head at that question. _Who are you to ask me that question? Who are you to intrude with my life like that?!_ Toru clenched his jaws, his eyes fiery as he glared at the smaller man who just tilted his head, silently telling him that he’s waiting for an answer.

As if Toru would actually tell him.

“Okay, lemme rephrase the question,” the man said, taking small steps towards him. Toru shrugged off the hand the man raised, but it still latched on his jacket—heavy and strong, determined with a purpose, no matter how fucked up that is—, “when was the last time you had sex that you actually _enjoyed_?”

“I—,” Toru clamped his mouth shut, barely fighting the urge to answer and defend himself from the scrutinizing gaze this man is throwing at him. “It’s none of your—,”

“Can’t answer, stranger-san?”

Toru felt the urge to just punch this guy. It’s not right, he never had the right to ask about that and yet, Toru’s mind can’t even formulate any answer to that. _When, indeed?_ He loves his wife, that’s for sure, and the nights they’ve spent together is sweet, romantic and full of love and—

“Was it good?” the man said, his hand landing on Toru’s shoulder to stand on the tip of his toes, “You know, you could always call me while I’m here in Japan,” he drawled, leaning in closer, until Toru can feel the moist, hot breath on his ear and the side of his pale cheek, “You look like a bored husband, and I could definitely give you _something more_ than an _obligatory_ fuck.”

Toru instantly shoved the man away, the blonde chuckling as he staggered on his feet. Okay, maybe this guy really is a hooker. And a fucking asshole who thinks that he could just ask random questions about his married—sex—life with his wife. Toru should’ve just left him out here. Really, but then his mind decided to focus on the last words—obligatory fuck. Was that what he’s been doing all along with his wife? All these months? Was he just trying to be a good husband, a good person because of his commitments to her?

_Where’s the love in that?_

Toru shook his head; why is he even being confused by a words of a stranger who knows nothing about him? About his wife, about his married life? It’s not—

_“when was the last time you had sex that you actually enjoyed?”_

“Hello?”

His head snapped up when the man suddenly spoke in an annoyed manner. He was talking in a phone, and Toru decided that it’s about damn time that he ditch the guy. He silently turned around and stalked towards the entrance of the club. His mood is ruined, and he can’t go home like this— _grouchy, lost in thoughts and doubt_ —so he might as well drink a bit more to drown all those flashes of images and ideas the man had pushed into his mind. He sighed, pushing the door open, completely oblivious to the almond-shaped eyes—blazing with interest and desire that he had never received from his lovely wife—which were silently watching his back.

_I hope this is the last time that we’ll ever meet._


	2. We Can Try to Keep the Love from Fading

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> September ended.
> 
> And Justice-san never had the chance to finish all of her shitty works.
> 
>  
> 
> ASHHHJJJKKK. I'm heeeeere. He's still not married, yes? I can still post stuffs?
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing and this is just a product of my imagination. Please don't sue/attack me.

“Tomoya!!!”

Toru almost spluttered all the contents of his mouth when the double doors of the hall suddenly flung open, revealing the _now-_ familiar frame of the blonde man outside. He looks mad, the strobes of multi-colored light landing on his clothes and face— _which was burning with irritation and anger, by the way._ He easily attracted everyone’s attention towards him as he stalked, with so much grace and confidence, towards the shaking— _eh, why is Tomoya shaking?_ —drummer in the far end of the hall.

“Shit!”

For a moment, Tomoya suddenly looked so sober. He straightened up, eyes opening wide as if he’s not moving like a drunk zombie just a few seconds ago _. And oh_ , he also looked like he’s about to face an execution, face getting paler and paler as the blonde moved closer and closer.

“H-hi, Takahiro— _ack!”_ e=the drummer howled in pain when the said Takahiro suddenly smacked him at the back of his head. Toru raised a brow because no one really hits Tomoya—the pure, so kind and fucking bright Tomoya—like that, well, aside from himself. And to think that this _hooker—Takahiro—_ could get away after doing that…

_Who exactly are you...?_

“Don’t _Hi Takahiro me_ , you bastard!” the man said angrily, “I told you that I don’t know my way to this club! And the fucking hotel is shit, I need somewhere else where I could dump my things!”

“A-ah, you could always stay at our house—,”

“Do you know how long I’ve been wandering outside!? I was so lost!”

“N-no but—,”

“You owe me a fucking tour around Tokyo and Osaka!” the man demanded, making Tomoya instantly nod his head vigorously, “I come all the way from L.A. just for you!”

“I-I know, I’m really sorry.”

The blonde huffed, crossing his arms over his chest—the murderous look on his face instantly dissipating before he suddenly threw and arm over the drummer’s shoulder, “Lighten up, _mou!_ I missed you, you idiot!”

And just like that, the strained atmosphere instantly changed. The stranger grinned happily, all teeth and sparkling eyes, while Tomoya hugged him like there’s no tomorrow. Toru just stood there, leaning against the wall and watching the bizarre interaction. So, _the man is definitely not a hooker_ coz Tomoya acts like he really knows him. And Tomoya is already a married— _and straight as a fucking ruler_ —so hiring an escort is not really on his bucket list.

_But I’ve never seen him before—_

“And that’s our leader!” he blinked, noticing that three pairs of eyes landed on his spot. Ryota is looking at him with a completely trashed out look on his face, Tomoya with a huge grin, and the stranger…

He raised a brow, cocked his head sideways and smiled at him, “ _Oh…so that’s your leader, huh…?”_ then he turned towards the drummer, “He’s the guitarist, too?”

“He is!” Tomoya nodded and beckoned him to go come closer, “He’s a really good one!”

_The fuck?_ He doesn’t want to be affiliated with the stranger with the strange habit of asking personal questions in the dark streets! But then, Tomoya and the stranger is eyeing him when he took a moment to pause. He sighed, drank the last contents of his shot glass before he sauntered towards the trio with a deep scowl on his face.

The stranger instantly brightened up, batting those mile-long eyelashes on the smooth skin of his cheeks when Toru stood just a few feet away from him. Toru just blankly stared down at him, huffing and showing his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

The tension between them was _palpable_ —enough to make the hyperactive drummer to look back and forth between them. Toru had never thought that he could hate someone just on the first site, but damn, this man is infuriating—kindling something akin to irritation and annoyance and curiosity within him— _him just by standing there. and breathing._ And eyeing him from head to toe.

“U-uhm, let’s introduce you to each other, ne?” Tomoya nervously laughed as he stepped towards him, “As I’ve said, this is our leader. He’s Yamashita Toru,” Tomoya eyed him like he’s expecting Toru to offer his hand for a shake.

He didn’t move an inch, not even dare to blink.

“He seemed _so shy_ ,” the stranger drawled as he offered his own hand, “But it’s alright, _I like them all_ cool and reserved—,”

And even before Toru could ask what does he mean by _“them”,_ the man is already pulling his hand form his pockets and forcing it with a weird handshake—soft, almost feminine hands gripped his own rough and calloused one. He flinched, glaring at the blonde when he accidentally squeezed his hand tightly—like he’s planning to crush it or something—before smiling up at him with a smile so bright it could have rivaled the sun’s.

“I’m Takahiro Moriuchi by the way, but you can call me Taka,” he said before batting his eyelashes— _seductively_ —up at him, “I’m the producer who’ll work with your upcoming album—,”

“Wha—,” his eyes darted towards Tomoya, asking for explanation.

“—so, please take care of me, ne?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The evening went worse after that revelation that shook him to the core. To think that Toru mistook the man for a hooker, a creepy stranger when he’s, in fact, the Music Producer from America that was supposed to help them making their new album…

_Damn, I need a smoke again._

He eyed the producer, laughing gleefully at something that Tomoya is saying. They’re now huddled in a semi-private booth—drinks and foods coming relentlessly as the night goes on. The music is loud, as well as Ryota’s snoring beside him, wait—

_What the fuck?_

He glanced at the bassist who’s peacefully dozing off like a kid on the long couch where Toru is sitting. He looked so _smashed_ , and he’s definitely going to have a massive hang over tomorrow. Good luck on that, he thought as he glanced at his clock, it’s just barely past one o’clock. He would be making his exit soon, because he couldn’t stand being in the presence of that man—

Who’s now quietly stalking towards him, a drink on his hand and a sly grin plastered on his full lips.

_Fucking hell._

“Mind if I sit here?” he asked, pointing towards the empty space beside him. Toru inwardly groaned, thinking that he should’ve put Ryota’s shoes there. just to barricade himself against this—this—

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s too bad coz I want to sit in there,” the man shrugged as he plopped his ass beside Toru. The guitarist glared sideways, ignoring the pleasant warmth emanating from the producer. “You’re so grouchy, like what Tomoya has been telling me since you asked him to join your band.”

Toru groaned, averting his gaze towards the drummer instead. _How dare you to say shitty things about me, to our new producer, of all people!_ He watched as Tomoya continued talking to the other guests, fidgeting as he _desperately_ tried to ignore Tour’s homicidal looks.

“Tomoya would be so dead later,” he softly mumbled afterwards, earning a soft chuckle from Takahiro.

“Oh no, you don’t,” he said, “I will be the one who’s gonna kick his ass the moment this party ends!”

That made him finally look at the producer. Well, they’re so different from each other but it seems that they have a passionate liking on bullying and/or kicking Tomoya’s ass just for being so fucking bright and energetic.

“Don’t worry, he’s also telling good things about you and the bassist and your vocalist—,” the man perked up and looked around them, “Where is he, by the way? Not in the mood to party?”

That’s exactly his question the moment he entered the party hall because why the fuck is their vocalist allowed to say no while Toru is practically being dragged into this loud, obnoxious place?

“He has…some appointments to do,” he just said, wondering why he’s even responding to the man’s attempt to start a proper conversation, “He’s younger and his parents are famous here in Japan so it will do no good if he’s spotted in some rowdy night club.”

Takahiro eyed him in understanding. Those almond-shaped eyes looking straight through him without any hint of malice nor mischief—like he’s understanding the hassles of being a child of famous celebrities.

“Heh, that’s tough,” he nodded, eyes focusing on Tomoya’s laughing form before he sipped on his drink, “That’s what I hate in the Japanese entertainment world. Made me go to States and start there with a blank slate.”

Toru leaned back on the cushions, thinking on how he would say that he’s not really interested in listening to any sad back story of the person he just met _(and instantly, passionately  hated)_ a few minutes ago.

“So! Tell me more about your band?”

_Oh for fuck’s sake!_ Can’t he ever take a hint!

“There’s really nothing else to tell,” he said in a bored manner, “Tomoya probably had told you everything anyways.”

“Like the story on how you stalked the vocalist to recruit him into your band?”

Toru made a face. a face that means someone—that Tomoya—will definitely have a beating later.

“Hai,” he nodded, “Like the story on how I stalked the vocalist to recruit him into my band.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t call the police on you for, you know,” the man shrugged, “being a creepy motherfucker.”

To his surprise, Toru let out a breathy laugh at that. No one had called him like that—no one except their very own vocalist who’s probably cursing him to the moon and back, back then. It’s quite refreshing to hear someone saying something foul against him—for all he can hear these days are the variations of how cool and matured and good-looking he is.

“He almost did,” he said, a soft, reminiscent smile forming on his lips, “But I have my ways. He’s not happy with his previous band too, so joining mine is like a win-win situation for the both of us.”

“That doesn’t make you less of a creep,” Takahiro stretched his jean-cladded legs across the floor, “If I were him, I’ll totally hit you with a guitar on your face—,”

“No shit—,”

“—no matter how good-looking you are.”

Toru’s eyes snapped towards the man beside him. The man looked up at him with a sheepish smile. Now that he’s looking closer, Toru can clearly see the long lashes framing the almond-shaped eyes, the moles decorating his flustered cheeks and the huge orbs staring right through his very soul.

He’s…

“That’s why everyone could mistake you for an escort,” he pursed his lips and absent-mindedly grabbed his now-empty glass, “All shits that exit your mouth is meant for flirting.”

“Oh, but I can also _fit things_ in my mouth—,”

His eyes grew the size of the fucking universe as he stared at the man with disbelief and slight disgust, “What the fu—,”

“Like this cherry,” the man sad, pulling the cherry floating around the clear liquid of his drink, pushing it passed through the red, moist lips—his pink, little tongue darting out to meet the fruit before it was pushed further into his mouth—all while maintaining eye contact with Toru.

_Fuck._

He shouldn’t have any images of the man putting something else into that mouth; he really shouldn’t have images of the man’s mouth open, wide around his—

“You’re gross,” he gruffly said as he looked away, his blood sizzling in his veins as he tried—desperately tried to push those sinful images away. He doesn’t even swing _that way,_ for god’s sake!

_So, what?_ If you’re batting for the both team, you’ll actually entertain those thoughts?

Toru’s frown went deeper—if that’s even possible. His primary reason to tell this man to kindly fuck off should be his marriage, but for some unknown reason, that fact doesn’t even crossed his mind as he watched the man practically made love to the cherry with his mouth.

_Huh._

“I’ve been called a lot of names, but _never_ gross,” Takahiro said as he chewed on the red fruit, “My offer still stands, Toru-san. Tomoya would know where I am, so if you’re interested…”

He glared at the man who just cackled his laugh heart before he went off towards the drummer again. Toru eyed him in disgust and vague curiosity. Takahiro sure is a man of mystery. He acts and speaks like a manwhore but he’s a producer—someone of high caliber, because Tomoya said that their new producer had worked with famous artists in the West before.

_He’s like a walking irony._

And it’s making Toru’s head hurts like hell. Maybe…maybe a few drinks would stop the headache that’s wracking his skull at the moment. And maybe, those alcohols would make him forget the stirring of warm, molten fire which was lit up the moment the blonde’s lips parted wide open in an alluring smile.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The night seemed to be endless, as well as the man’s dirty sexual flirtations towards him. Toru mostly ignored him, preferring to stare across the dance floor with a pensive look on his face, but his ears were attentively listening to the conversations around him. Apparently, Takahiro grew up in Japan, and was a member of Tomoya’s band before they’ve disbanded a few years ago. Takahiro went to live abroad and Tomoya was recruited into his band after that.

“He can sing really high notes!” the drummer beamed, “can play various instruments too! He’s like, a musical genius or something!”

Toru glanced at the rather flushing producer, who’s sitting beside the drummer—his stance relaxed despite the eyes probing and watching him from the distance. He must be used in this kind of attention, Toru thought.

“I used to,” Takahiro corrected as he put down his glass on the table, “Let’s not talk about the past, anymore Tomoya. I want to know more of your band, mou!”

“You’re a vocalist,” Toru blandly said, making the said man glance up at him—probably surprised that he actually said something even without being prompted to. “You don’t look like you’re one.”

“Oh, should I be dragging a mic stand wherever I go, then?”

Annoyed, heavily-lidded eyes met sardonic almond-shaped ones. There’s this imaginary cackle of electricity between them, the air humming with unseen tension with every gaze, and Tomoya probably noticed it—the way his head whipped between him and the producer, his hair bouncing all around him as he did so.

“Maybe,” he started, but Toru and Takahiro didn’t make any movement to tear their gazes away from each other—no one wants to lose, no wants want to turn around and give the other the smug satisfaction of winning that staring contest, “Maybe you should give them a sample of your talent, Takahiro,” the drummer said.

That made the producer’s head abruptly snapped towards his friend, “What the fuck?! Are you fucking drunk, Tomoya?!”

“Maa,” he shrugged, “Toruge clearly doesn’t believe that you can sing and besides, we’re actually waiting for you to come by and sing some songs for our dear friend who’s about to get married! Isn’t that right, Ryota?!”

“Urghhh,” said Ryota who’s completely sprawled out on the long seat, his dyed blonde hair covering most of his face. “Yassssh, _singggg…_ ”

Tomoya beamed at the blonde man, who, in turn, just crossed his arm and huffed, “Maa, I would love to but I don’t see any guitar here—,”

“You can use Toruge’s!”

“WHAT,” the producer and Toru said in unison, Toru’s was more intense because _there’s no way in hell_ that he’ll let this bastard use his beloved guitar—but then the said bastard’s eyes were already glinting with excitement, a wide, wide smile forming on his full lips as he focused his entire attention towards Toru.

“Well, that would be nice,” Takahiro drawled, nodding to Tomoya who just magically understood whatever the fuck that nod means, “Can I borrow your precious guitar then, Toru-san?”

_Oh, fuck my life!_

Toru groaned and hesitantly plucked the case from behind the couch and reluctantly held it out to the producer who was suddenly standing across him. Frail hands clutched the case but Toru won’t let go of it, not before glaring up at the blonde man and spitting out threats like, “If I see any scratch on it, I’ll fucking _strangle_ you, you understand?”

To which the man responded with a toothy smile, “ _Kinky,_ Toru-san. I never knew you’re into that—,”

“Just,” Toru tiredly shoved the guitar case onto the blonde’s arms, “Just fucking go. You’re making my head hurts like fuck.”

“We could _fuck until your head bursts_ —,”

He glared daggers at the man who probably mastered the art of having a very productive, dirty mind. And mouth. Takahiro instantly clamped those lips shut, before merrily trothing towards the drummer again. Toru groaned and just hope that the fucking kid could really sing, or he’ll definitely punch Tomoya on his face later.

_Four times,_ just to be sure that he won’t be waking up tomorrow.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Turns out that the fucker could actually sing. It was a ballad, a mixture of English and Japanese—the words and syllables flowing out in a continuous manner, the transition was so smooth you’ll never know if the man is actually an American or Japanese. His guitar skills are mediocre at best, but the way he holds himself, perched on that stool, one foot on the ground to steady himself as he strummed the guitar—Toru’s white guitar, decorated with the signatures of the musicians he admires—with a steady beat and his voice—oh, his voice was pure heaven. Toru would probably receive a whack at the back of his head for thinking that this Takahiro could sing better than their very own vocalist.

_“Wherever you are, I never make you cry_

_Wherever you are, I never say goodbye_

_Whatever you say, kimi wo omou kimochi_

_I promise you "forever" right now…”_

And suddenly, Toru was brought back to that live house, one hot summer night where he saw the vocalist singing in the darkness of the room. Suddenly, Toru could feel the exact feeling—the need to talk to him, grab him, tell him how good his voice is, tell him how it would be nice to join his mind— _get him, recruit him, make him mi—_

_“Bokura ga deatta hi wa futari ni totte ichiban me no kinen subeki hi da ne_

_Soshite kyou to iu hi wa futari ni totte niban me no kinen subeki hi da ne”_

Toru sat up straight on his seat, his heavily-lidded eyes watching the man attentively. He wonders, if there would be another _universe_ where he could meet him earlier, even before the band was formed, because if there’s one, he’ll definitely make sure to recruit this man with that amazing voice.

_I’ll just probably have to deal with his perverted way of thinkings, tho,_ he mused.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He really should've left early.

If not, he won't have to drive this insufferably drunk man towards his hotel unit—a very high-end hotel in the richest part of Tokyo—where the front desk personnel giving them odd looks. _Well, who wouldn't be?_ A public figure like him grunting as he balanced the blond man on his shoulder, as Takahiro helplessly clung onto him door his dear life. He asked for the room number, which the man mumbled, and after a few questions from the personnel, they found their way towards the elevator. It was silent, the classical music in the background easing Toru's nerves as he subtly glanced at the man standing a few feet away from him. Takahiro is leaning heavily on the glass wall, head tipped back, eyes closed and there's a contented look on his face despite the vibrant scarlet high on his cheeks, a small smile on his lips as he hummed into the tune.

He looks _so young._

So happy and all, while Toru looks so miserable when they're just of the same age. He's married, happy with his wife and career, has friends, bandmates and staffs and all the people supporting him and his decisions—he had money so what's keeping him from having that same satisfied look that's now gracing the producer's face?

"Staring's rude, ya know?"

He blinked, belatedly realizing that the man has already opened his eyes, glassy orbs peering up at him from across the carpeted floor.

"I'm not staring," he gruffly said, averting his eyes.

"Of course," the man said and even without looking, Toru could hear the smug, amused grin on his lips, "Whatever you say, Toru-san."

"Don't call me that."

"Sure," the man said as the metal doors parted with a soft ping. He lazily pushed himself off the glass wall and looked at Toru expectantly, arms raised into the air as if he's beckoning him to carry the blonde.

What...?

_Hell, no!_

Toru pressed the hold button, "I won't carry you to your room!"

Takahiro's eyes widened in feigned hurt, a hand clasping on his dark red shirt, "Ouch! That hurts, Toru-san! Aren't you supposed to be treating me so nice?!" he hiccupped, and Toru's eyes darted past his shoulder, where he can see two hotel personnel walking towards the direction of the elevator.

_What the—_

"That's what friends are for!" he whined before taking wobbly steps towards him, successfully latching on Toru's jacket, "I'm so dizzy!"

The personnel are already within the hearing range and he don't want to make a scene. It's not good for their band's image, and for his own. But this guy...

His arms steadied the shaky frame, ignoring how the blonde practically snuggled closer into him, mumbling something like, _"smells so good"_ against the fabric of his clothes. Toru cleared his throat, thinking that he would just go along with this man's schemes, drag him to his room and dump him before rushing back towards the elevator.

He grunted as he put the producer’s arm over his shoulder, his free hand grabbing the—noticeably—slim waist to support the man out of the elevator car. The personnel eyed them and Toru stiffly smiled and mouthed, "he's a drunk friend" towards them. The two nodded before rushing past them while Toru grunted, ignoring the soft chuckles coming from the man who's practically hanging onto him.

"S-see," he said, "You're so kind...you can't resist helping a...a... _hic!_ " more chuckles, "a helpless man like me...ahahaha..."

"You should be an actor for acting like that," he grunted out, "Where's your hotel room?"

The man looked up at him, face scrunched up in childish confusion for a moment before he finally muttered the number. Toru nodded and scanned the golden plates on the door, slowly walking and dragging the man along with him until he finds the right one. And it's...it's probably one of the most expensive too, judging from the location—isolated, no other doors around, probably in a corner with an expanse of floor to ceiling wall, the whole of Tokyo laid bare to see.

_He's a rich man after all_ , he thought as he looked down at the blonde who's busy chuckling while fishing the card from his pants.

"It's...My things' in here," he said and leaned on the door, trying and failing to swipe the card because of his inebriation. Toru watched him for a few moments but after failing for the 5th time, he finally snapped and snatched the card away from the producer.

"I've got it, _mou!_ " he snarled and swiped the card, the hiss of the door unlocking was so loud in his ears, "we would take forever before you get it right!"

"What if I don't want to get it right?"

His eyes snapped towards the producer. His voice sounded so strong and firm and _oh-so sober_ at that, but then, Toru was greeted with a sheepish smile, red-rimmed eyes and flustered cheeks.

_He looks totally smashed._

Maybe it's just his imagination...

"Come on," the blonde said as he pushed the door open, "Bring me to bed, Toru-san..."

Toru blankly stared at the man who's evilly batting those eyelashes on his cheeks. Then Toru couldn't take it anymore and just shoved the man inside, kicked him on his ass and slammed the door shut _because what the fuck?!_

_Why does every word coming out of that mouth sounds like a fucking innuendo?!_

"I'm really getting dizzy..."

Toru blinked, and well, would you look at that. The man is still standing and looking at him with hopeful eyes, making Toru realize that he probably just imagined the shoving/kicking stunt earlier. But damn, if he wants just our producer, or Tomoya's friend, for that matter, Toru won't hesitate to just do it. And add more kicks for good measures.

He massaged his temples. It's late, _so late it's already early_ in the morning and his wife is probably clawing all her hair off her scalp in worry. _If she's even waiting for you_ , his mind suddenly said, but Toru pushed that thought down and focused on the mighty, pain in the fucking ass task at hand.

_Like getting this shit on bed_ , no sexual innuendos intended.

"You can walk, alright?" he said, wincing as the man puffed out his lower lip in a childish pout, "I really need to go home now and..."

"You don't have to," Takahiro said, "I mean I won't come to you, well not now, and I'm really not comfortable being...being uh..." he furrowed his brows, "alone right now? What if...what if I accidentally smashed my head on the floor because no one is around to...to uhm...yeah?!" his eyes narrowed, and damn if Toru didn't felt like he's the bad guy here. Damn this man and his magical ability to turn things around, to make the victim feel ashamed and evil and all the fucks when he's the one who's being a manipulative piece of shit!  "No one will know that I died! Would you want that?!" he gasped in horror.

Toru bit his tongue to prevent himself from bluntly saying that, _yes, he'll very much like that to happen._

But he doesn’t really want to just stand here forever, and the alcohol is starting to make his head a bit fuzzier. And he's exhausted in dealing with this shit. Yes, he can drive but...but for how long? His eyelids felt heavy and the idea of crashing into someone else's couch sounds inviting...

_She's waiting._

He groaned and grabbed the man onto his shoulder, maneuvering him into the genkan of the hotel room.

_She's probably asleep._

The man let out an indignant squeak but allowed Toru to manhandled him. As expected, the room looks posh—dim lights, high ceiling and extravagant furniture are all over the place. The curtains are open, displaying the expanse of the pre-dawn Tokyo skyline.

_She'll be gone when I wake up, anyways,_ he thought and dragged the man towards the bedroom—the only bedroom in the luxurious space. There were two suitcases opened in front of the foot of the bed, guitar cases leaning on the wall, and something like a keyboard is perched on the coffee table. And upon seeing those instruments, it suddenly dawned to him again that this...this _flirtatious motherfucker_ is actually a very talented man—someone who would be helping in producing their next album.

Someone who can sing like an _angel._

Someone who could smile like the _devil._

He's a walking contradiction, he thought as he pushed the man on the bed. Takahiro didn't waste any time to plop on his back, kicking his shoes off and laying on his side to stare at Toru's form.

 I would offer you the...uh...bed," he said, eyes growing heavy, "But you would definitely punch me.so just sleep on the couch and sleep before going home...?"

Toru shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and eyed the rather inviting couch at the other side of the room. He should go, he would go but then, Takahiro suddenly ordered him to stay. And his voice sounds so powerful and compelling and the next thing Toru knows is the feeling of soft cushions against his back, the lights dimmed and room warm, before he finally had fallen asleep into a dreamless sleep.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He really should've left.

 

He woke up at the sound of plates and silverwares clanking. There's this sweet and delicious aroma wafting in the air. Making his stomach rumbled. He was always hungry after spending a night drinking, but his lovely wife never knew how to cook. Maybe simple dishes here and there, but nothing else. And she's mostly asleep when Toru arrives, leaving before he even wakes up and sparing herself from the task of attending to his gravely hung over husband.

But Toru couldn't hold it against her. He didn't marry her just to be his personal attendant when he's shit-faced. She means so more than that.

_And speaking of her—_

His eyes landed on the drawn out curtain, the thick, heavy fabric blocking off most of the sunlight—and it’s probably high noon by now and —

He suddenly rose into a sitting position. Groaning out loud when his head suddenly felt like it's gonna be split into two.

_Damn hang over!_

"Fuck, _fuuuuck,_ " he drawled, cradling his head into the palm of his hands. What the hell, he didn't even drink that much last night! Why is his head aching like some imaginary shit is pounding a giant hammer onto it?!

"Well, if it isn't _sleeping beauty_ finally opening his goddamned eyes," came the rough voice somewhere across him. He grunted, forcing his eyes to open, just to see the producer standing a foot away from him, holding out a glass filled with water. Toru's throat felt suddenly so dried, so parched and even without the blonde beckoning him to take the glass, he immediately grabbed it in and took the cold, cold liquid in one gulp.

The cold liquid trialed like ice down his throat, making him wince in pain. But at least his thirst is getting quenched and his mind is somehow finally registering where he is, and who the fuck is the blonde guy wearing nothing but a robe, blonde tousled and matted on his face.

Toru glared at him, "W-why," he croaked out, cradling the glass between his hands, "Why are you not hung over?!"

_It's not fair! He drank more,_ heck he can't even stay up right last night and he's looking refreshed and bright and energetic while Toru is, again, looking miserable and dying as every second passed.

Takahiro barked a laughter, crossing his arms over his shirt, "Well, I'm older and more experienced than you, Toru-san!"

"You're totally smashed last night!"

"I'm always like that when I'm drunk!" he said and turned away to push a... wait, is that a service cart? —towards the coffee table. It does have a lot of food and tow st3aming cups of tea. So, that's where those wonderful smell is coming from. Huh? Where did that even came from? "But my body's used to it so I kinda adapted. Here," he said and put the cup of tea on front of him, "Have some breakfast then, we wouldn't want your wife to see you so shit-faced when you go home, hmmm?"

Oh shit. _Wife._

Toru glared at him and fished out his phone, and there it is—three missed calls and a shit ton of messages asking where on earth he was. The last one came at around 9am, probably just before she left for work, telling him to message her once he's home. Or something.

_Fuck, fuck, I messed up._

He groaned and immediately tried to compose a mail, saying that he’ll be home as soon as possible and that...something came up with their producer so he couldn't leave him or something. Said producer is now dutifully placing the plates of food— _specially to cure hang overs_ —on the coffee table while humming an unfamiliar tune. He looks so calm, so fucking peacefully Toru is dreading that fact that his wife is probably cursing his ass to the moon and back because he didn't straight back home.

He sent a mail and locked the screen of his phone, his gaze meeting Takahiro's almond-shaped eyes watching him over the rim of his cap.

"I guess there will be trouble for you at home?" he asked.

"It's your fault," he blandly said and took the cup of tea, the scent instantly calming his head, the pounding suddenly ceasing for a moment. He sighed, blowing the smoke billowing from the hot drink, wondering on when was the last time someone a tea to sooth him after a long night of drinking, "If she'll give me hell later, I'll punch you the next time I see you."

"Oh, _kowai, kowai_ ," Takahiro laughed, before he started to dig in, "Maybe I need to come with you when you go home—,"

"Son of a—,"

"—and clarify things about your whereabouts last night," he smiled, the tip of his chopsticks caught between his lips, "Like how you spent the night sleeping on my couch even if you had the perfect chance to go home."

His fingers curled around the mug tightly at that, "you were the one who—,"

"I didn't take you to be so _gullible_ , Toru-san," he put down his chopsticks on top of his bowl, and smirked across him, "What if I told you to _fuck me—,"_

Toru was grateful that he wasn’t drinking the tea when the producer stated that without even batting an eye.

"What the—,"

"—last night? Would you do it?"

"Hell no," he bluntly said and averted his gaze. Takahiro looks so unconvinced and Toru doesn't want to see the smug grin forming on that full lips. "I don't swing that way, and even if I am, I won't fuck you even if you're the last person on earth."

Takahiro's eyebrow slowly rose in interest. Eyeing him like how a predator would to his prey. Silent. Dangerous. Killer. _Full of dire repercussions._

"How would we know that if you haven't even tried it," he slowly said, smacking his lips in the process before grinning at him, "I would take that as a challenge then, Toru-san—,"

"I'm out of here," he declared rising on his feet, ignoring the screaming muscles and the massive pounding of his head. He'll live with that. He could drive. Or heck he would check into another hotel just to get away from this bastard who's openly trying to flirt with him. He staggered towards the door, the melodious laughter echoing in the background as he gripped the knob.

"If you ever get bored pf your lovely wife," he said behind him, “my offer still stands, Toru-san. I'm looking forward to meet you again!"

He slammed the door shut behind him.

He would need to talk to Tomoya about this.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He came home into an empty house. No sounds, no lights, no food on the table to cure his massive hangovers. He grunted, the memories of the feast laid on Takahiro’s table looks so _appealing_ right now.

Maybe…Toru stared at his worn out expression on the mirror of their bathroom, his eyes were dark, sunken, and his hair looks like a fucking nest. He could see the mug containing their toothbrushes, the myriads of facial products on the counter, and the hamper basket just behind him—he was home, _definitely home,_ but that doesn’t make his mind from wandering back to that hotel room, bright and alive, filled with music and that angelic voice…

_Maybe…I should’ve stayed for breakfast after all…_

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Toru’s face was dark as a storm—his brows deeply furrowed, nose scrunched up in disgust and lips pulled down in a frown as he waited for the goddamned producer to finish loading all of his luggage’s into his car. He watched as Takahiro gently put his guitar case on the back seat, leaned back and put his hands on either side of his hips as he glanced at his luggage’s.

“That’s all!” he grinned before looking at Toru over his shoulder, “That’s all of my stuffs. I’m really glad that you agreed on driving me to the shared house.”

Toru felt his eye twitched in irritation. He couldn’t remember agreeing on anything— _much less breathing the same air as this Takahiro again_ —but Tomoya, that goddamned drummer had apparently brought up his name when the producer said that it’s about time that he see the studio where they would be working for the album. The drummer, their vocalist and Takahiro had gone out for a lunch the other day, and those two little idiots told the blonde man that they have a shared house, by the sea where they would always make and record their own songs.

_And oh, let’s not forget_ the fact that those idiots also nominated him to drive Takahiro to the place because, as the producer cheekily relayed earlier when he called him— _now that I’m thinking of it, how did he even have my number_ —, “Toru’s always bored out of his mind, and he really don’t have a social life so he’s free to drive you around!”

He gripped the keys between the palm of his hand in immense annoyance. How dare those two to sell him out to this…this…energetic piece of shit when it’s glaringly obvious how he hates seeing and interacting with the producer!

_“That’s a big no-no, Toruge,” Tomoya had said in the phone call earlier this morning, “He’ll be a producer, and even if Takahiro’s looking like that—,”_

Toru glanced at the other man, who’s looking around the hotel, his blonde tresses falling and bouncing around as he roamed those almond-shaped eyes on the streets. He looks like a hyperactive child, to be honest—a boy from the country side, who had his first time seeing the busy, lively jungle concrete called Tokyo. For a moment, Toru got lost in those eyes— _wide and curious_ —as Takahiro takes everything in, the buildings, the people, the cars honking, the trees lining the sidewalks and the never-ending stream of people—

_“—he’s really talented and serious about his work,” Tomoya continued, “So be a good leader and bring him to the house ne! We just need to prepare for Ryota’s wedding so be useful to something else, okay?!”_

And then the fucker had ended the call, leaving a very shell-shocked and murderous Toru on the other line.

And that’s how he ended here in front of the hotel. He’s not really planning to go, they would have to go out for a dinner with his wife but the blonde man had called him saying that he’s already out of the hotel, with all of his baggage’s and that he’ll wait for Toru-san to come over.

Toru didn’t felt any guilt at that. He really didn’t because he ignored the call, made himself some coffee and read some newspaper, their previous songs playing in the background—loud and booming across the halls— _which is something he could only do without his wife in the house these days_ —because she’s always stressed and loves sleeping or reading in a calm, peaceful environment. But after half an hour of just…lazing around, the images of the blonde sitting on the tables outside the hotel, chin propped on his fingers as he scanned every car passing by haunted his mind.

_What the hell._

He’s not supposed to feel bad for the producer, he hasn’t even agreed on driving him!

But those images were like brands burned into his mind and after a few minutes, Toru cursed, pushing himself off the couch to shower and get dressed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You could’ve _pretended_ that you’re glad to see me again, Toru-san,” Takahiro softly said while they’re finally driving onto the expressway. Toru ignored him and focused on the endless road ahead of them. The shared house is about 5 hours through car and 5 hours dealing with the bastard would be fucking hell so he really should just ignore for the rest of the trip. “Coz I am.”

That made Toru sneaked a glance at the producer. He’s currently leaning on his hand, eyes trained on the vast greens they were passing by.

“My house is also by the beach,” he said, and Toru had to bit his tongue to prevent himself from saying that he doesn’t give a fuck about his house because Takahiro looks so…subdued and forlorn and…and… “And no matter how fun the party in Tokyo, I would always miss it. So when Tomoya said that you have a shared house near the sea,” Takahiro turned his face towards him and fuck if it wasn’t the brightest smile Toru had ever seen in his life—, “I decided to just stay there instead of the hotel!”

He huffed, trying to calm the racing beats of his heart as he gripped the wheel tighter.

“We won’t be all there—not until Ryota’s birthday, so you would have to stay there all by yourself,” he said.

The producer let out a noncommittal hum, “I’ve always been alone, Toru-san. I can manage a few more days of that solitude.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Those words rang into Toru’s head for the rest of the journey. And he would probably still be thinking about it, if Takahiro didn’t just lower his windows, allowing the fresh breeze to enter the fucking car and—

“Closed the goddamned window!” he screeched, the car swerving a bit as he glared at the cackling man who just lean outside, the blond and black tresses flying everywhere as he laughed out loud, looking at the mountains and the clear blue sky ahead of them.

“Do you want to kill yourself?!”

The man responded by laughing—his giggles reverberating in every corners of the car, before it was drowned by the howling of the wind—as he properly sat, his hair standing to every direction, “Of course not! You need to loosen up more, Toru-san!” he said and pushed back the strands of his hair, “You’re younger but you look like you’re already a father of a dozen kids. Loosen up, mou!”

Toru glared at him, not really liking that revelation that this...this teen-looking man is actually older than him. He just focused on the road, ignoring how the scent of strawberries filled the car, how the man’s laughter turned into hums, until he’s already singing western songs, some Toru was aware of—effortlessly belting out high notes with that voice of his—he tried to ignore him, until he realized that he failed to do so, that five hours instantly went by, without him resorting to strangling the cackling fool.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The moment Toru had parked the car in front of the house, Takahiro was already leaping out of the car, screaming bloody “ _The sea!!!”_ as he dashed towards the shore.

“What the fuck!” he stumbled out of the car to yell after the producer who’s running mad like an extra-hyperactive kid, “Get your luggage out of the car first!”

He was met with more laughter’s in the distance, the sound of the wave crashing relentless on the shore drowning it. Toru groaned, crossing his arms as he watched the man toed off his expensive shoes, rolled off his pants and dashed towards the glistening blue waters.

Toru’s mind wandered back to his wife—the times they’ve spent in some beaches, with her calmly walking by the shore, never letting the water to touch her porcelain-like feet. She was smiling, softly, reverently and she was pretty— _she’s like the setting sun, calm and magnificent and gives you this soothing feeling, but Taka—_

He looks like the bright afternoon sun, the grin on his face was so huge and lively it actually fit on the sparkling of the water around him. He was knee deep into the blue see, arms thrown wide as he stared at the steady horizon far across the ocean.

_He’s like the sun_.

And Toru fears that he’ll burn if he gets any closer to him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I’ll be back before eight,” Toru leaned back on the swivel chair in front of the control boards in the studio. While Takahiro was busy playing in the sea, he busied himself with dragging all of the producer’s luggage’s—because as much as he hated it, _he’s still our guest, and guests deserves hospitality not hostile shits_ from the leader of their band. It seemed like hours and he’s currently talking with his wife on the phone, her voice crackling on the line since the studio is located in the basement of the house, “I’ll go to your building, or do you have to go somewhere else before we go to the restaurant?”

“No, I think I’m ready to go!” she happily chirped, just in time when the door parted open, revealing a newly showered Takahiro. His locks were messy as ever but he looks comfortable and at home enough with that loose white shirt and jogger pants. Takahiro glanced at him, a brow arched, but didn’t said anything as he padded towards the couch where all of his instruments were resting, “You really should make up to me, you’ve been so busy with your all boys party these days~!”

Toru smiled. He can practically hear the pout on her voice. Two years of living together can do that; can make you sense every change of emotion. _But can’t she tell?_ That he’s busy doing stuffs for his beloved childhood friend, busy doing stuffs for the producer who’s going to help them in their next album?

_And the said producer is—_

“It’s for Ryota’s wedding,” he gulped, realizing that the man is already standing in front of him with a wide, _wild_ smile on his stupidly full lips. What is it now?! Natural, he had to glare up at the blonde who merely smile down at him. “And we’ll be busy next week too, so yeah…I’ll…”

His eyes widened when a pair of soft, warm hands landed on his shoulder, horror filled them when the fucker—oh no, no, don’t tell me you’re gonna do what I’m thinking you’ll be doing—started to climb over his lap—

He struggled, of course, his free hand trying to swat the man away but with his wife on the other line, he couldn’t afford to make any suspicious noise like _, like—_

The sound of rustling fabric was so loud, and Takahiro’s hushed giggles filled the air, Toru hissed, as the swivel chair squeaked under the weight of two full adults—

“Toru?” came her sweet voice. It was like a cold balm to Toru’s burning thoughts and hatred—his burning hatred for this man who’s now making himself comfortable on Toru’s lap—

_Fuck, fuck, fuck—_

“Y-yes...?”

_God,_ he hated how he hissed that breathless word. _Motherfucker_. He doesn’t know why, he’s not even doing anything wrong—well, aside from allowing this man to continue living and polluting this house with all his fuckeries—but he’s being stabbed by this feeling—this immense fear and…and _guilt—_

Takahiro grinned, his finger caressing his face in a soft, gentle manner— _like how a lover would_ , as the digits roamed around his face—tracing the dark rings under his eyes, the pad of his thumb prodding the soft, delicate skin, before stroking the apple of his cheeks—

_It feels nice._

Toru had to stop himself from sighing in contentment because it’s been long since someone—since anyone did that to him. Probably his wife, but that was before they got married. Which is a huge irony because just as when they tied the knot, they started refraining from giving those precious touches, the chaste actions…

“You’re at the studio, right?” she said, in a very wary, very silent voice and Toru was immediately pulled out of his dazed as he abruptly stood up, Takahiro rolling down the floor with muffled cusses and hisses but he couldn’t care less. He can go all the way to hell and he won’t even bat an eye. He’ll probably even send him off with flowers and parties.

“I am, we arrived just a few minutes ago.”

“…there’s no girls there, then?”

Toru felt himself at lost with that question. This is the first time that his wife had asked that— _the first time that she doubted him_ and fuck if it sends a trillion volts of lighting to his entire system.

“No, no, why would you even think that? It’s just us and—,” he glared at the producer who’s now fiddling with the controls on the panel. He looks at them with wide, serious eyes—a huge contrast to the seductive behavior he was pulling just a few moments ago—, “and the producer from America? The one I’m talking about the other day?”

Almond-shaped eyes zoomed towards him. _Talk?_ He seemed to ask without even talking, _You’re talking about me to your wife?_ Then a grin, _that’s nasty, even for you, Toru-san._

…

…

_What the fuck, when did he started reading his facial expressions like an open-book?!_

“Oh,” there was a relieved sigh, “Okay then. I’ll see you before eight, then?”

“Hai, hai,” he nodded, “I’ll be there.” There was a soft mumble of I love you but Toru couldn’t bring to answer right away, he just, instead, chose to say something dumb like, _“Me too,”_ before hanging up. The moment he ended the call, he immediately glared at the producer.

“What the fuck was that?!” he snarled, shoving the man’s shoulder and making Takahiro wobble away from the control board. The blonde didn’t even flinch, instead he just cackled like he found it amusing that Toru is losing his cool over that matter, “I was talking with my wife, you bastard! You could’ve—!”

He paused. _Could’ve what?_

“Could’ve ruined it?” Takahiro crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his hips over the console, “Is your trust towards each other that it’ll crumble just like _that,_ hmmm?”

Toru opened his mouth to say something, but his brain decided to malfunction at that very moment. He tried to opened them again, but he was so at lost. _What was he scared of, anyway?_ The sounds of clothes? Takahiro’s gentle touches? Or that brief moment that he thought that it was _okay_ , that it was _alright_ to have Taka straddling him, that it _feels great_ and that he could let it last longer.

“You look like a dumb fish opening and closing your mouth like that,” Takahiro said, amusement lacing his voice and that’s when Toru realized that yeah, he’s probably making a fool of himself and that Takahiro was staring at him like a creep, “Anyways, I came here to tell you that we need to go to the grocery, or else, I’ll die here of hunger.”

_Oh, what a nice distraction._ Toru desperately needed that.

“We?”

“Well, you have a car and I don’t know my way around this…” the producer cutely pouted— _wait, what—,_ “And I certainly don’t know my way around here, so I need you to drive me around again~!”

“I’m not your slave—,”

“But you’re my host,” he pressed on, a small smirk plastered on his full lips, “Besides, it’s just an hour or two, we have to hurry coz you have a dinner with your lovely wife, don’t you, Toru-san?”

Toru wanted to kill Tomoya again for that. He hates this, hates that he was the one who’s tasked to _babysit_ this bastard—a smirking, good-looking, flirting, and conniving son of a bitch—who’s also a very talented producer, has a very pretty voice, and the one who can catapult their album into another whole new level.

_He was a walking irony,_ Toru begrudgingly told himself. And it’s just for a few weeks.

“Fine,” he spat and grabbed his keys from the console, “But I gotta go at 3 in the afternoon, and if you’re not done with your _housewife_ duties, then I’ll leave your ass on the shopping district.”

“Hai, _anata.”_

Toru glared at him. He wished that the bastard would just combust right there and then— _or for fuck’s sake, can he be a bit more sensitive?!_ Why isn’t he affected with Toru’s glares?! He even looks smug at it, the dumbass!

“ _Three o’ clock_ ,” he repeated, just to hammer it down on the grinning man’s brain. Takahiro let out a childish laugh before nodding, following him as he trudged up the stairs with a heavy heart.

“Hai, boss,” he heard him say in sing-sang manner behind him and Toru had to fight the urge to just turn around and push him off the goddamned stairs for being a cheeky motherfucker, “Three o’ clock and then you’re off to your lovely wife.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Toru didn’t make it to the dinner that night._

Well, he _did._ But he was two hours late and the look of pure disappointment on his wife’s face as she looked up from her phone—she was sitting on one of the couches in the lobby of their company building—was too much, like a huge, grubby hand that punched him into his gut. There were tears on the corner of her eyes and that huge pout on her otherwise smiling lips made him halt his steps just a few feet away from her.

He gulped, wanting to say something— _anything_ —to prevent those tears from finally spilling but what would he say? That he had _enjoyed_ shopping with Takahiro? That it was the first time he’s been into a grocery—because his wife had lived this princess life style— _overly protected by her family_ —and has never knew how to cooked meals? That he had enjoyed watching Takahiro skim through the aisle, throwing remarks about each piece of goods and fruits and vegetables and how it would taste like with _this and that._ He was so absorbed with the tips, with the laughter’s and sudden use of vegetables as weapons and props with his antics that when he remembered the dinner— _his supposed to be dinner with his wife_ —it was already almost five in the afternoon.

It was a blur after that, he had left Takahiro in the meat section, the man just smirking up at him _—lips curled in a sly smile, almond-shaped eyes twinkling in mischief_ —as Toru rushed out of the shop. He couldn’t care less if the producer has to go back to the house on foot or someshit—he needs to get out of here, get into his fucking car, step onto the gas and make it—

Make it to the dinner that had _oh-so casually slipped from his mind._

He had raked his brain for reasons which would only sound like pathetic excuses for his shortcomings. Goddammit, how can he even lose track of time?!

_This is important!_

This is a time for his—his—

_“Is your trust towards each other that it’ll crumble just like that, hmmm?”_

“Y-you’re late,” his wife stood up and smoothed her skirt. He had just notice it now, how she dressed up for their date. And just...just the thought of her dolling herself up for their meeting is…is…

Had she waited so long for him?

Had she worried herself on why he’s still not coming?

Had she hated him? Had she doubted his promises?

“We could still—,”

“I want to go home,” she stiffly said, sniffing and turning away when Toru raised his hand to touch her, “I’m tired.”

She didn’t even wait for his response as she slowly walked passed him, towards the exit, the clacking of her heels on the marble floor was so loud in Toru’s ear. But even as he watched the back of his wife going farther and farther from his reach, all he can remember was Takahiro’s smug, challenging smile.

_Damn, that fucker._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I didn’t plan it!” there was the loud sounds of guitar and bass in the background when Toru called the producer that night. He knows that melody, one of the countless demoes their vocalist had made during their extensive nationwide tour in the early months of the year. Takahiro is probably listening to him and for a second, Tour was completely taken aback coz he had forgotten that this sly motherfucker is also their newest producer. “What even makes you think that I planned to ruin your date with your wife?”

Toru clenched his teeth, the ash from his cigarette falling carelessly on the floor of their balcony. It’s past midnight, but he couldn’t bring himself to sleep on their bed—where his wife had turned her back on him. How could he sleep when he knows that she’s faintly sobbing, probably throwing curses at him and thinking that he’s a good-for-nothing man like her father had told everyone when they were still just dating?

He’ll talk to her tomorrow, let her anger drained out of her system…

But for now, he need to talk to Takahiro— _which is weird because what’s more important than comforting your wife_ —what, confronting the reason of all this mess?

“You _perfectly_ knew that you had to leave at 3 o’ clock, Toru-san,” he can imagine him flail his arms into the air to emphasize his phone, “But you didn’t and that’s entirely your fault, isn’t it?”

_But if you weren’t just too—_

He stopped himself. What was he even trying to say? What was he even trying to say against Takahiro when, in fact, it was all him who forgot, it was him who fucked up, it was him who made this mess—

And he even had to drag the producer down with him. What the hell?

There was a loud, merry laughter in the background and that made Toru snapped his attention back towards his phone.

“Maybe you’re just thinking too much. Maybe you just like my company too much, you _big tsundere, you~!”_

He rolled his eyes at that. He can even imagine the bastard grinning like fuck while sitting on Toru’s chair in the underground studio.

“You could always come here tho—,”

“That’s our house, in case you’ve forgotten—,”

“—and I’ll make sure that you’ll feel better,” he said, making Toru almost inhale the remaining stick of his cigarette. He couched, his lungs threatening to spill out of his fucking mouth as images—faint images of that scene earlier in the studio—where Taka was sitting on his thighs and caressing his face, eyes and ears and all shits dedicated to Toru— _him and him alone_ —flooded his mind. “So much better. So why don’t you give in, Toru-san...?”

He ended the call even before he managed to get a single word out of his mouth. Everything that comes out of that mouth is pure trash. And Toru would pay to stuff something—preferably a gag or a rag into that rude, foul mouth.

Why is he even still coming on to me? He already knows that I’m married and—

_Are you happy?_

_“You look like a bored husband, and I could definitely give you something more than an obligatory fuck.”_

His throat suddenly felt dry, he needs smoke, he needs water, he needs sleep, he needs warmth—but looking at the bright Tokyo skyline, littered with buildings and cars and bright establishments—ah, so alive—and even if he has a wife sleeping soundly on their bed, even if he has a career and life everyone would die for, even if he had made songs that hit the chart a couple of times—Toru suddenly felt how alone, how cold, how empty he is at that moment.

_“—and I’ll make sure that you’ll feel better,”_

And for some fucked up reason, he could still hear Takahiro’s voice haunting his mind, long after the call has been ended.

_“So much better. So why don’t you give in, Toru-san...?”_

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...does this shit even makes sense???
> 
> Please tell me what you think.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Are We Wasting Time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised myself that if there would be no wedding announcement at the last day of the Orchestra Tour , I will post this shit today.
> 
> Anyways, I've been obsessing over this fic even tho it's lame gaaah. Even more when I'm listening to [this](https://soundcloud.com/user-318445114/ld-2018)
> 
>  
> 
> Here's a chapter. It was actually longer but I decided to cut it jasjasbajsa
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

_I’m a coward,_ Toru inwardly thought as his car zoomed past the expressway leading to the shared house. He doesn’t really want to see _that_ …Takahiro again, but certain things led him into this unexpected road trip _. You see_ , after that failed attempt to make up to his wife by taking her out in a lovely dinner, things went _downhill._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He tried to fix it, as every responsible and loving husband would—ordered some bouquet of flowers he knows that his wife adored so much. He brought it in, along with ordered food—because he really doesn’t wanna _accidentally_ poison the most important person in his life with his awful, and _almost non-existent_ cooking skills. It was a nice idea that he saw on the internet, breakfast and flowers in bed, a sure way to win back a girl’s heart— _well, at least the article said_ —and it worked. Because she smiled up at him, her short hair mused and tousled, eyes glinting softly in delight as she accepted the flowers.

Toru apologized once more and she accepted it, and he watched her eat, watching as her skin practically glowed under the soft sunlight streaming from the curtains on the other side of the room. It was quiet, the hum of the heater can be heard in the background, and while Toru was looking at the flowers on his wife’s lap, his mind--- _for a moment_ shifted to that beach house, the sounds of waves crashing on the shore and the breeze whistling past him so loud in his ears. Suddenly he can hear the rough, raw sounds of the instruments, the beeps of the equipment and that melodic voice—

He was pulled out of his daze when his phone rang under the sheets. His wife paused eating, looking at the beeping device while Toru scrambled to reach it. For a moment, he was scared that it would be Takahiro— _mischievous, flirty, insensitive Takahiro—_ so he practically dove for the phone, making his wife jump back on her spot on the bed. The utensils clanked at the motion and Toru mentally cursed at his actions— _sure way to make your wife even more suspicious, genius Toru, really genius_ —as he excused himself and answered the call—

Which was thankfully from their vocalist.

He said that there would be a radio interview before lunch and that he should attend together with the vocalist or else, he didn’t specify it, but Toru knows that there would be _dire consequences_. He hates how tyrant their vocalist is, but knowing Tomoya and Ryota, the two would definitely avoid public appearance _like the plague_ and push the responsibility onto him again.

Like what they’ve been doing for years now.

He sighed, nodding and agreeing—oblivious to the fact that his wife had stopped eating all together, the bouquet laid abandoned on the sheets as she looked up at his back with a confused, hurt look on her sleep-ridden face.

“Hai, hai, I’ll be there— _oomph_!”

He wasn’t able to finish his sentence when he felt something hit his back, colorful petals exploding everywhere all around him. _What the fu—_

He abruptly turned around, only to be greeted by the totally devastated and furious face of his wife—his wife who was smiling and looking so bright and radiant just a few moments ago—glaring at him. _What happened?_ Toru glanced at the shattered roses on the floor, his mind racing because everything has been going fine, she obviously had forgiven him so what—

“I have to go,” he said to the vocalist before ending the call. He put the phone into his pocket and crouched down to pick up the mess of stems and petals from the floor.

He asked her what’s wrong, in a very calm, confused voice but she lashed out—tears streaming down her face as she told him how he had changed, how he got lesser and lesser time for her now—and that if she could just turn back time, she would always go back to the era when their band was still not _that known,_ where they can still go out in dates without fearing of the fans stalking them, when Toru could still stay at home and dedicate _every_ song to her— _unlike now_ —

“You’re always with them!” she shrieked, while Toru just stayed rooted on his spot, looking at her—completely lost and troubled because—because—

What was that?

_She doesn’t want us to be more successful?_

_She doesn’t want us to reach even greater heights?_

What was that?

_Doesn’t she…_

Wasn’t she fully aware that a band man has to go away for days, locking himself in a studio to make songs after songs and fix demos and be with the band—

He clenched his jaws at that. _How dare she to question him like that_ —accusing him of neglecting her in favor of the band when it was them who were with him _almost half of his life?_ When _it was them_ whom he made dreams turn into reality, when _it was them_ who knows him from head to toe, when _it was them_ who cared for him more than _anyone could?_

Toru gripped the petals into his fists, his teeth clashed against each other as he desperately tried to reign in the anger. It was unfair. It was childish, and immature.

_I thought…_

He thought that she— _of all people_ —would understand the shits and hits of being a band man’s wife—not this— _not like this—_

“I’m going out,” he said as he plucked more petals from the floor, tearing his gaze away from the tear-streaked face of his wife—he doesn’t wanna see her face, don’t wanna hear her accusing voice for a while, because he’s scared that he would lose his cool and say things that he’ll definitely regret afterwards, “I’ll be heading out for a while,” he grounded out before getting up and stalked towards the bathroom, dumping the ruined bouquet of roses in the trash bin beside the door.

Ah, his efforts have been for nothing after all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

And that’s why he’s here, driving like there’s no tomorrow towards the shared house. The radio interview was long over but he’s still fuming—the look on her wife’s face and her voice were still fresh in his mind—so he decided that he would need a breath of fresh air—somewhere far, somewhere safe, somewhere where music can be his only focus—

_Somewhere where that Takahiro is._

_But isn’t it better?_ He thought to himself as he parked the car beside the house. Takahiro is like…a fresh breath from his polluted life in the city. He is brash, careless, spontaneous but _oh-so_ very honest. _And he cooks,_ he bitterly added as he went out of the car, taking a deep, deep breath as he faced the bright blue sea—filling his lungs with the salty air, allowing the stress of this morning ebb away from his system.

_This is great._

He just has to survive a day with the flirty bastard. Speaking of which, Toru was expecting that the blonde would just pop out of nowhere upon hearing the sound of his car. But no blonde came bouncing out of the house so Toru thought that he must be downstairs and doing his…producer-stuffs. He went towards the main entrance, pushed the door open, frowning as it easily gave away— _what the heck, does that man has no sense of self-preservation?! What if robbers get into the house, huh?!_

Great, Toru, now you’re getting worried about someone _who’s so much ready to sleep with you._

He snorted and went inside, frowning at the mess that greeted him. Well, it’s not exactly a mess. It’s more of…the house looked like someone is actually living in it—there were clothes hanging on the back rest of the couch, guitars laid on them, papers strewn across the table and the rug. The windows were left open, allowing the sea breeze to pass through, blowing the flimsy curtains away. He can see a pizza box under the coffee table and there’s this…this unfamiliar aroma wafting into the air.

_Someone’s cooking—_

“I already told you, I’ll talk to you once I get back—,”

Tired heavily-lidded eyes met almond-shaped ones as Takahiro padded from the kitchen, wearing a crumpled white shirt and shorts, a spatula on his right hand while his left is holding his phone close to his ears. He was speaking in English, his Japanese accent almost indiscernible, as he eyed Toru in mild shock.

He looks like he’s not expecting to see him again any time soon.

_Well, me too, to be honest._

“I swear to god if you trash my house, I’ll sue you when I get back— _fuck_!” he snapped, looking at his phone in disbelief, before effortlessly switching into Japanese, “What the fuck, did I just got cut off?! What the hell!”

Toru watched the man with little interest. He looks like he’s fighting with his lover, and he don’t really give a flying fuck about it. There’s this delicious smell coming from the kitchen and since he’s so focused on getting away from the city, he’s more interested with filling his rumbling stomach rather than listen to someone else’s affairs.

He wordlessly stalked passed the producer, ignoring the arching of his brow, as he went to the kitchen. He paused in the doorway, taking into the myriads of ingredients now littering the once pristine and bare counter top, raking his brain on when was the last time he had seen such a busy kitchen.

_Never in his house._

Never in this house too, because they— _all of the band members_ —knows shit about cooking. They would just order stuffs from the internet or go to the nearest shopping district to eat. So seeing this…this mess is actually like seeing a _miracle_ unfold right before his damn eyes.

“What are you doing here?”

He almost jumped in shock when the producer suddenly spoke behind him. He was now staring up at him with his arms crossed over his chest. He looks so _comfy,_ emitting this annoying aura as if he owns the house. Damn, he really had made himself at home, huh?

“Well, this is _my_ house.”

“But aren’t you supposed to be with your _lovely wife_ today?” Toru hated the way the words rolled out of the producer’s tongue like that. He narrowed his eyes, watching as the man padded towards the stove and mix whatever he’s making inside the pot. Whatever it was, it sure smells good as fuck. “Trouble in paradise, eh, Toru-san?”

He glared at him, “That’s none of your business anymore.”

Takahiro smiled graciously over his shoulder, looking smug and completely unconvinced. In fact, he actually looks like he knows what exactly happened, and that he’s just gonna leave the matter like that. “Fine. But you really should help me cooking, I can hear your stomach rumbling like a fucking dinosaur, even from here.”

Toru wanted to say something like, fuck off, this is my house and my stomach could growl like a hungry t-rex but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, especially when Takahiro was smiling at him like that—hopeful, bashful—and even before he can say harsh words at the producer’s face, Toru’s feet had already betrayed him and padded towards the blonde man.

He hated the way the man triumphantly grinned at him tho.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Toru clenched his jaws as he struggled—yes, _struggled_ is a fitting word for all the shit he’s been doing on putting the damn onion on the chopping board, _the fucker won’t just stay still mou!_ — “You gotta peel the skin off before chopping them, you dumb fuck!”

Toru didn’t even grace the screeching man with a glare. He was too busy trying to chop the damn onion into halves. Or cubes. Or dices _, whatever_ —he wasn’t really listening when Takahiro started saying stuffs about chopping onions earlier. He just wanted to eat! Why must he experience doing these…these stuffs?!

“I told you to peel them off, first!”

The knife landed on the board with a loud thud as Toru’s head snapped towards the direction of the producer, “Don’t fucking tell me what to do!”

“Then do your job properly!” he snapped back, and oh had he already mentioned how he hated this man? —, “You’ve got one job, Toru-san! One fucking job, to slice this…this _onion-chan_ into pieces! And you suck at that!”

The fuck is onion-chan?! Does he goes naming each ingredient like that?!

That’s…that’s… _cute—_

“Then you do the chopping, mou!” he said, tossing the onion—

“Fuck!” Taka growled as the onion almost hit him dead on his forehead—

—towards the general direction of the producer. He couldn’t take it anymore. Cooking is not supposed to be like this—not that he really could say that coz he knows shit about kitchen but dammit, _this is my house and nobody shouts at me in my own abode!_

“Fucking fuck, you don’t waste food like that!” the man screeched, like Toru had personally offended his entire clan or something.

“But you can give them weird names?! That’s not fucking fair!”

Takahiro blinked at him.

“What?”

Toru blinked back.

“What?”

…

…

“You’re really a weird bastard, Toru-san,” Takahiro dramatically sighed before he grabbed another onion, started peeling it under running water and put it on the chopping with so much force Toru had to jump away—but he couldn’t, because Takahiro gripped his hand, made it hold the cursed knife and started guiding it on chopping onions.

_What the hell—_

Toru’s eyes focused on the man—which was weird because here’s the producer chopping onions with Toru’s hand while the said owner of the hand is looking at him with wide eyes in disbelief—, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Chopping onions,” he simply said.

“With my hand?”

The chopping motions stopped, and the producer finally let go of his arm. Toru wouldn’t admit that he felt quite a bit disappointed at the sudden loss of warmth. He would never.

“Yes, with your hand, you bastard,” Takahiro said, looking and sighing in exasperation as if Toru was the _dumbest person_ he’d ever met in the kitchen— _well, maybe he is_ —but Toru doesn’t really give a fuck. Now that the onion-chopping _thingy_ is done, maybe he could finally rest now? He’s been helping for around uh—he glanced at the wall clock above the fridge—10 minutes now. it’s enough. “How did you even survived cooking with your wife?”

Oh crap, _wife._ Right.

He had a fight with his wife and the last 10 minutes of being and getting verbally abused by this man had kicked that miserable fact out of his mind. So instead of responding right away, he just grabbed a tomato and started chopping it—not caring if they actually need a tomato on whatever the man is making. He just wanted to…chop… _things._

And mumble stuffs like a completely sulking child.

“We don’t cook…” he grumbled under his breath, praying that the man won’t hear it. But the heavens probably hated him or something, because he can see the man’s brows rose at that, the smile on his lips growing impossibly wide. “She can’t cook…”

“But _I_ can.”

Toru sighed and glanced sideways, only to realize that the man had crossed the short distance between them—a warm, smaller hand landing on his shoulder as those almond-shaped eyes seem to beckon him to look, to listen, to give all of his attention to this bright, mischievous creature named Takahiro.

“I can cook for you,” he said, licking his lips—the pink muscle gliding across the plump lips—, “Can learn all of the dishes you like, the drinks you preferred, and make you eat nice, warm home-made meals every time—wouldn’t that be wonderful, ne, Toru-san?”

The thought of…of Takahiro cooking when Toru gets home—the smaller man busy with carefully selecting the ingredients, knowing what Toru likes and dislikes, the warm, sweet aroma of food lingering all around the house— _was so fucking alluring_ that he can even imagine himself standing behind him and hugging him from his back to see what he’s making—

He snapped his gaze away from the knowing smirk on that face and focused on keeping a steady rhythm of breathing. Must not think of that, must not even go that far.

_He’s not worth it._

He has a wife waiting for him at home. She might not be able to cook, but they had live with it for two years now, and it has _never_ been an issue. They were happy and contented with what they have, with what each of them could do.

_How about now?_

“How about that, ne, Toru-san?”

He felt a shiver zapped through his entire body when the man pushed himself at the tip of his toes, speaking those words just right next to his ear—warm, moist breath fanning on the sensitive lobe as Takahiro said them with a low, almost purring voice.

“I can fucking give you what she _can’t._ ”

He glared at the man, ignoring how those words stirred something within him—thoughts and images flashing right into his mind—a different future, a different house, waking up on a different bed with a different person—an unknown future, _not knowing what will happen ahead of the_ m—as he hissed.

“I can fucking elbow you if you won’t stop saying stuffs like that.”

Takahiro threw his head back, laughing—the sound seems embracing Toru, enveloping him with a warm blanket even if the man had gracefully trotted away to check the pot on the stove, all while cackling like a merry fool.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The meal went alright after that awkward moment. They spent a lot of times fighting over silly things and Takahiro offering food to him using his own chopsticks while Toru just glared furiously over the rim of his bowl. It tastes good. Better. Chef-like. But he won’t say that aloud. Besides, Takahiro doesn’t seem to need the verbal approval for his cooking, because the moment Toru’s eyes widened at the first bite, he was already grinning from ear to ear _. Damn egoistic bastard._

They cleaned up afterwards, and went down to the studio below. The moment they sat on the couch and listened to the demos, everything went smoothly—sounds were rearranged, schedules were mind a few words for the lyrics dropped here and there—there was no systematic way, it flows, like water— _smoothly but productive_ —because they _both_ know what they want, they _both_ know how each song should sound like and for a moment, Toru thought that it wasn’t really a bad idea to hire this man as the producer.

He was good.

_Bright. Smart._

 “You know,” he looked up from fiddling on the guitar when Takahiro turned towards him, his chair squeaking under his weight. He was sitting in front of the console, one leg propped on the other and was leaning comfortably on the back rest, “We could be a bit more experimental. Your vocalist told me the other day that he wants a new sound, something that will break away from your old style, but you’re against that?”

Toru frowned and straightened up. _It’s not…_

“It’s not that that I’m against it or something—,”

“You just don’t like doing new stuffs?”

“—but I’m just,” he said, shrugging his shoulder, “We’re just worried that a lot of people would stop supporting us if we decided to change path or change the style they used to loved us for. It’s like…betraying them or something?”

“Betraying who?”

Toru grunted before adjusting the guitar on his lap. It suddenly felt heavy on his thighs, as he recalled how many times he had this conversation with their very own vocalist. The idea of expanding further and experimenting with new sounds and styles is _very nice,_ alluring to every artist but there’s also this fear—the fear that people won’t like it and just abandon them or something. It’s not a decision you can make with just sheer enthusiasm alone—it’s complicated and there’s a lot of stuffs to consider—Tomoya has a family now, Ryota is getting married, the staffs, the stakeholders, everyone in their own little family—they will all be affected with the outcome.

They’ve come so far because of their listeners and if they decided that one day, their band is not the one they loved before, Toru wouldn’t be able to take it.

“The fans,” he finally said, “The people who loved us for the unique style we have. Because if we changed now, then—,” his eyes grew wide when Takahiro bolted up from his seat and stalked towards him—his eyes narrowed into slits as he towered before Toru—tall and strong, _intimidating and determined_ —

“ _Whose_ dreams are you chasing, Toru-san?” he asked. It was spoken in a normal voice, but held so much determination that the guitarist couldn’t help but to flinch. “Whose dream was it, to cross over seas and make a name overseas? Whose dream was it to perform in larger places, arenas, domes? _Is it theirs?_ Was it the fans’? Isn’t it **_yours_**?”

“We—,”

“Tomoya told me about your dreams of going abroad to expand, to perform on foreign soil and make more music together, being yourselves—and if—,”

“It’s not that easy—,”

“—and if you’re just doing music and songs to please everyone, then, _isn’t just a waste of time_?”

Toru glared up at the man. He wanted to say something to rebut that but what? How can he say something against that when everything that came out of those lips were the truth—no matter how harsh it is?

“There’s gonna be risks— _always_ —like a fucking gamble,” he continued when Toru remained silent, “Your song always tells people to be themselves and never tell themselves to be someone else, but _how about you_? Creating songs just to satisfy other people? Isn’t that…” his eyes grew smaller as he squinted and look down at Toru with pure revulsion, disgust—pity—, “Isn’t that _hypocrisy at its finest,_ Toru-san?”

Toru wasn’t able to respond to that anymore.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

There was food when he came back home that night. It was late and the lights in the living area were dimmed. But as he slowly went to the dining hall, a small smile graced his lips as he saw his wife seating on her spot, arms propped on the table and sleeping like a baby.

_She probably had stayed up late to wait for me._

He silently padded towards the dining table and glanced at the food—they’re all from the restaurant they both loved so much. The stuffs he likes the most were all on the table _, a peace offering probably_ , but there was no sweet scent wafting into the air, there was no _warmth_ , no _laughter’s_ , the lights in the room were dull and it was silent—

And Toru’s mind, being the jerk he is, unintentionally went back to that kitchen, messy and noisy, warm air salted by sea breeze entering the windows, carrying the smell of the meals into every corner of the house—his mind going back to that small moments with Takahiro—his _words,_ his _face,_ his _eyes—_ even if he has his wife right here, right now, dutifully waiting for him.

He sighed and walked closer to his wife, apology at the tip of his tongue yet his mind is wandering…thinking on how things would go if he would, _even once,_ accepted the man’s offer.

_Will it change anything?_

Or will it just doom him even further?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> torukainktober was over gaaaah did you guys enjoyed it??
> 
> please tell me your thoughts about this! Thanks for reading~!


	4. The Words Began to Fade Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this fic ends soon but it would be so rushed if they suddenly start fucking or something.
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. OOR will never be mine.

“You seemed to be spending a lot of time here, huh, Toru-san?”

The guitarist looked up from the food he’s been devouring when the producer finally broke his silence. He was busy eating, because he’s starting as fuck going straight into the shared house after a meeting with everyone in Tokyo. He doesn’t really planned on going into here, and he didn’t have a fight with his wife today— _which is good_ —but she’ll be out of the prefecture for two days, and Toru would rather spend his time making songs or watching the horizon in this place than spend it within the emptiness and silence of his home.

_Besides, there’s good food in here._

“Did you got a fight with your lovely wife again?” Takahiro asked, picking his food with the chopsticks in his hand. He doesn’t sound like he’s prying, nor insulting Toru or his wife—probably asked the question with just pure curiosity so the guitarist felt obliged to answer him.

“This is _my_ house,” he said the lame excuse again, “I can go here whenever I want to.”

Takahiro smirked at him, the grin slowly, lazily forming on his lips as he propped his chin over a hand, “Maybe you just like my food so much coz your wife doesn’t make shit for you?”

“Why must you always bring my wife into any topic?”

“Coz that’s the _only_ thing that’s stopping you from accepting my offer, right, Toru-san?”

Toru growled and furiously glared at the man sitting across him. “It’s not _just_ that,” he snarled, “I’m straight as hell and even if I wasn’t married, I won’t give into your offers even if you’re the last man on earth.”

“ _Straight,_ he says,” Takahiro snorted so Toru, naturally, had to kick him under the table. The man gasped before glaring at him and retaliate—not by also kicking him too—but by putting his foot onto Toru’s lap. No, _crotch—to be specific._

“ _Motherfu_ —,” he hissed, glaring at the man smiling so innocently across him. He tried to shrug the foot off, but it kept moving, pressing, making Toru’s member very uncomfortable within his pants—, “Fucking—,” he grabbed the offending foot and yanked it, making the man slid down on his chair, a short, pained laugh escaping his lips.

“Oof!” he said, gripping on the edge of the table to prevent himself from completely falling over the floor, “If you want me under the table, _just fucking say so!_ No need to harshly pull me down, mou!”

Toru instantly let go of the socked foot at that, totally repulsed at the idea of Takahiro kneeling under the table, between his legs, hands on his thigh and mouth wrapped around his—

_Homo-janai, homo-janai—_

“As if,” he scowled and continued on eating. Takahiro cackled across him as he straightens up on his seat, gazing at Toru like a love-struck maiden. He just hoped that he had learned his lesson or else, Toru won’t hesitate to drag the man out in the beach and chuck him into the sea— _producer or not_ —and say goodbye to his flirty ass, but no—

“Maybe—,”

“Oh, for the love of god—,”

“—You haven’t just tried it—,”

“—will you fucking shut up—,” he glared but the man just batted his eyelashes on those creamy cheeks, lips split wide with a naughty grin, “I’ll gag you if you won’t stop coming at me, you asshole!”

“My, my, so you’re into _that_ , huh?” Takahiro said, making the guitarist grimace. _Oh, he can really gag this bastard_. He’ll use a rag or a neck tie or socks—anything that can be stuffed into that...mouth...to make him…

_Images of a kneeling Takahiro between his legs flashed like fucking web ads on his mind again._

…shut…up.

_Fucking hell._

“We could also do that but maybe it’ll be too much for a…” almond-shaped eyes raked on every pore of Toru’s face, “...straight guy like you—!” Taka ducked when Toru threw his fucking chopsticks towards the direction of the man. Screw table manners or any manners at all because this midget is really pissing the shit out of him—he might be a good producer with a good ear and constructive criticisms here and there—but that can’t stop Toru from just stabbing him to death or something—

Takahiro gasped, looked at the chopsticks on the floor before glaring at him, “That could’ve blinded me, you fucker!”

“Then it’ll be better so you could stop looking at me like that!”

Takahiro tilted his head, messy blond tresses falling onto his eyes as he did so—eyes glazing with something akin—no, _definitely_ —lust and hunger, looking up and down, making Toru shiver as the orbs shamelessly roamed all over his face. It’s weird, creepy and cringe-worthy because the man was giving him such intense gazes that he could actually feel fingers sliding on his lids, the dark circles under his eyes, the apple of his cheeks, the tip of his nose, his jaw lines and on his lips.

Takahiro, the _flirty bastard_ , looked at his lips before biting and licking his own, his eyes snapping towards Toru’s heavily-lidded—and completely uncomfortable ones—, “Looking at you like _what_?” he drawled, feigning innocence.

“Like _that!_ ” Toru hollered in indignation as he leaned over to grab the man’s collar, “I’ll strangle you if you won’t stop, you sick—,”

“Oh, _kowai, kowai_!” Taka laughed, much to Toru’s distress—his dark, glaring eyes did nothing to intimidate the smaller man—, “Are you treating your wife so _roughly_ like that?”

He tightened the fist holding the man’s clothes—if looks could kill, Takahiro would be long dead by now—flinching when instead of moving away, the producer just raise his own hand, grabbed Toru’s and slowly, deliberately run his soft fingers on Toru’s skin.

_What the fuck—_

“Or you can’t?” he said, making Toru snapped his eyes from the lingering fingers onto the man’s eyes which seemed to pull him in, “Because she looks so soft, so pure, raised in a very nice family who taught her to be lady like?”

Toru’s mouth parted to say something, to defend his wife—that being raised that way is not something _you should fuss about_ —that he loves her just the way she is, but even before he can speak, Takahiro had already raised his free hand and grabbed him by the back of his neck, pulling him closer, his hips digging painfully against the edge of the table as their upper bodies almost touched over the goddamned table.

His hand was warm—hot, like a brand scorching his skin as he peered up at him— _so close, so fucking close_ and all that Toru could see was the mile-long lashes, the slightly flustered cheeks, the top of a nose and the plump, plump lips just a few centimeters away from him.

He had to get away, he knows that but the grip on his nape was strong—reminding him that despite his flirty actions, despite his smaller stature, this Takahiro is still a full grown man, older than Toru himself and pulling his head down like that is not exactly impossible even if he’s a midget.

“Have you ever fucked her _rough_? Make her scream and sob your name, Toru-san?” he asked, Toru tried to leaned back—to escape from those intense eyes looking ferociously up at him—but the hand seems to weight a ton, chaining him down and closer to this man. He instead steeled his gaze, not wanting to give Takahiro the glee of getting some sort of reaction from him, “Have you ever pounded into her and her liking it? Have you ever done stuffs with her? Heck, did she even gave you a head once in your married life, hmmm?”

Toru fight himself from squeezing his eyes shut. He loves her, respected her and all of her wishes—and thinking, imagining her doing that is like—like a complete _abomination_ , like a crime. It doesn’t have to be like that—they’re not just merely fucking, not merely using each other’s body for pleasure— _they’re making love to each other not…_ not—

“I bet no, right, Toru-san?” it was spoken, barely above a whisper, right against Toru’s skin. He was so close he could almost taste him, breathe the same air as him, but he stood his ground. “So…” he shivered when the hand holding onto his nape slid across his skin, tracing the hard lines of his jaw before it cupped his cheek, the thumb caressing the soft, sunken skin under his eyes—all while not losing eye contact with him, “…wouldn’t it be nice if you can experience it even just once...?”

Taka couldn’t even react, when Toru let go of his collar, slammed his hand onto the mahogany table to lean even further, grabbing the man’s honey blonde tresses and pulling his head away from his—Taka’s eyes glinting as his head arched back, the creamy column of his throat laid bare for Toru to see.

“Don’t. _Fucking._ Tell me what to do with my wife!” he snarled, his mind conflicted whether he wants to slam the producer’s face onto the hard wooden table or mark that throat, bite it, claim it and make the fiery creature known as Takahiro to submit to him—to let him realize that Toru is not someone he could just mess with, that he’s not everyone who had probably fallen prey on his flirty attempts, “It’s not always about fucking, not always about mind-numbing pleasure and someone like you— _someone who doesn’t have anyone to stay by your side to love you_ —wouldn’t understand!”

He instantly clamped his mouth shut at that.

He had crossed the lines, he realized as his mind echoed the things he had just said—and for a moment, he swears he can see a glimmer of hurt, of pain, of anger on those almond-shaped eyes before they were masked once more, before they were easily replaced with another taunting one—like he hadn’t been treated like that, that harsh words were not just screamed on his face.

“…but,” he softly said, “…wouldn’t it be nice to think about it, nee Toru-san...?”

And much to his horror, his traitorous eyes landed on the glazed eyes of the producer, down to his slightly parted lips, puffs of air escaping the plump, red pair as he tried not to grimace on Toru’s harsh pulling on his hair. Those lips…

_I wonder how many things he could do with them?_

Toru wonders, for a split second if Takahiro _could take_ a pounding, could scream and sob and do stuffs for him—he wonders if Takahiro would still look good giving him a head— _offering what his pure, lovely wife couldn’t, accepting what Toru couldn’t do to her_ —graciously, willingly, and appreciatively—

 _Eh,_ he blinked, pushing the man away. Taka staggered backwards but the grin on his face didn’t faltered. He hated him, hated how the world is treating him like this—he _was_ happily married, he _was_ happily devoted, he was— _he was—_

_Bored._

Seeing life in _monochrome._

Searching for something that could excite, something thrilling, something that could make his heart pound against his chest—like the good old days when they were running around, chasing after their dreams—when they were younger and careless and free.

_Free._

Unlike now.

He snarled, turned his back and stalked towards the exit—he needs air, he needs space, a place away from this man who’s suffocating him, by just merely existing, by planting images and offering something Toru wouldn’t be able to attain— _by telling him that he could give him freedom and everything in between_ —but—

At what price?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me what you think~! Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me what you think~?
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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